Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

out what?”

      “That’s the point,” I said. “Give me a couple more days and maybe I’ll have explanations to deliver.”

      “Wansborough’s bound to get word of Alice’s death some time very soon,” Annie said.

      “Well, he’s family,” I said. “Somebody’ll call him. Even if not, the murder’s going to catch tonight’s news for everyone to see and hear and feast upon.”

      “Imagine what the Sun’s going to do with the story tomorrow.”

      “Take a guess at the headline.”

      Annie thought for a moment.

      “‘Sexy Socialite Slain’.”

      “The proper alliteration,” I said. “Don’t know about the sexy.”

      “We’re talking about a newspaper that measures sexiness on the Sunshine Girl standard,” Annie said. “By comparison, Alice Brackley is a knockout. Was.”

      “How about ‘Annex Asks Action On Attacker’?”

      Annie said, “That’s for the follow-up story later in the week.”

      Annie was past the first shock of the news of Alice’s death, and time, vodka, and the sneak attack of the giddies had levelled out the jumpiness I’d brought back from the scene of the crime.

      “You’re going to keep on playing the intrepid adventurer,” Annie said. She was back sitting in the chair. “Okay, but one suggestion. For backup or support or whatever you legal people indulge in, another opinion, why not put Tom Catalano in the picture right away?”

      “The sort of job this is,” I said, “the law society doesn’t smile on.”

      “Just because one lawyer may get himself disbarred, no sense making it a double disbarment,” Annie said. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

      “Something like that.”

      23

      THE WOMAN ON THE PHONE spoke in the language peculiar to Rosedale matrons. She doubled up on the vowels. Matthew came out “Ma-ah-tthew.” The woman was Mrs. Wansborough and she could lay honest claim to the accent. The Wansborough address, when I looked it up in the white pages, was in deepest Rosedale. Very proper and establishment Rosedale is, with a British tilt to it. Mrs. Wansborough said her husband was playing golf. She didn’t mind telling me the name of the club where he was playing, the Royal Ontario, but she had a warning.

      “Ma-ah-tthew,” she said, “dislikes intrusions on his golf match.”

      “Diphthong,” I said.

      “Pa-ah-rdon?”

      “What you do with the vowels,” I said, “I think they call that a diphthong.”

      “Thank you so very mu-uh-ch,” Mrs. Wansborough said. I had no doubt she was truly grateful.

      I dropped Annie off at the CBC Radio building on Jarvis and kept going north to the Royal Ontario Golf and Country Club. It was an old stomping ground of mine. When I was married to the beautiful and wealthy Pamela, her father enrolled me in the club. Family tradition, he said, all the males belonged, including quaint sons-in-law. Pamela’s father paid my initiation fee, five thousand dollars back then, five times as much today. I went into the club with the notion that golf was an effete activity for snobs. I was half right. Royal Ontario thrives on snobbery, but golf is a sport that plays hard tricks on the mind and body. I couldn’t get my handicap under twelve, and after Pamela and I broke up and her father nudged me off the membership rolls, I never played another round.

      Royal Ontario is the last Toronto course that still lies inside the city limits. From the first tee, you can hear the big transports changing gears up on the 401. I turned the Volks into the parking lot. Made of white clapboard, the clubhouse is two storeys high and shaped in a U that faces inward away from the course. Around it there are stands of tall rowan trees and flowerbeds that are long on snapdragons. I circled the clubhouse to the lawn that looks over the course’s first holes. The course drops gracefully into a valley and makes a wide sweep through the valley’s floor until it begins to climb up the back nine toward the clubhouse.

      On the lawn, three or four dozen people were sitting in wicker chairs. Stewards in white jackets moved among them serving drinks and tea. You got six fingers of buttered toast with each cup of tea. Ancient club rule. One of the stewards recognized me. His name was Will and he’d served at the club for half a century. Each morning, in season, Will raises the flag beside the clubhouse and lowers it at sunset. Will mourned the passing of the Union Jack. So did the members.

      I stood at the edge of the crowd of wicker chairs and Will came over to me. He was slim and erect and had a clipped moustache from his days as a colonel’s batman in the Great War. Will thinks all wars are great.

      “We haven’t had the recent pleasure of your company, Mr. Crang,” he said. Will knew that Pamela’s father had banished me. His code forbade the mention of such seamy details.

      “Other duties, Will,” I said. “Other obligations.”

      “There’s something we can assist you with this afternoon?” Will asked.

      “Man named Wansborough,” I said, “I’d like a word with him.”

      “The gentleman is in Mr. Thompson’s foursome,” Will said. He had a quavery voice. “That would be our Mr. Thompson the banker.”

      “Of course.”

      “Not Mr. Thomson the architect without a ‘p’. They teed off not long past eleven.”

      “That ought to put them about the fifteenth hole by now.”

      “Mr. Thompson likes his quick pace.”

      “Maybe the seventeenth?”

      “I should think.”

      “I’ll pick them up at the eighteenth green.”

      “The gentleman you spoke of isn’t a member,” Will said. It was an accusation.

      “Wansborough?” I said. “Didn’t think I remembered him from my time.”

      “A guest,” Will said. He walked away with his tray.

      I wandered over to the eighteenth green. Four men were finishing their round. A young guy in lime-green slacks crouched behind his ball and lined up the putt. “For all the marbles, partner,” one of the other players said to him. The speaker had a broad, flushed face and was leaning on his putter at the side of the green. The young guy hunched over his ball in a stance that was part Jack Nicklaus, part vulture. He hit the ball with a firm stroke and it ran in a right-to-left curve and curled into the centre of the cup. “Not too shabby,” the man with the flushed face said in a loud voice. He and the young guy gave one another polite high-fives and walked away with their two opponents. No one glanced in my direction. Probably took me for a greenskeeper.

      One more foursome played through the eighteenth before Matthew Wansborough came into view. The eighteenth hole at Royal Ontario is a long par four, about 440 yards, made longer by its steep upward slope. Good golfers have trouble reaching the green in two. Wansborough wasn’t a good golfer. He had a short, choppy swing. He was wearing red-and-green-plaid trousers, and the flaps on the pockets of his white golf shirt had trim of the same material. Wansborough shanked his third shot into a bunker to the left of the green. He needed two whacks at the ball with his wedge before he blasted out. He three-putted. An eight. It might have been my fault. Wansborough gave me a long look before he stepped into the bunker. The sight seemed to unsettle his concentration. Maybe it was my jeans.

      Wansborough picked his ball out of the cup and walked to the back of the green where I was standing.

      “Good heavens, man,” he said in a low, harsh voice, “you’re not dressed.”

      I